Faal Lingrah Strah Bodein (The Long Road Home)
by Morninglight
Summary: Martin Aurelius Mede has been homeless since the age of eight. Now with only a few years remaining as the Grey Fox, he returns to Cyrodiil and is confronted with a legacy greater than he imagined, forcing him to make decisions on who and what he is. And in Aetherius, Akatosh watches as plans centuries in the making begin to fall into place...
1. The Serpent's Trail

Note: Figure it's time I return to Tales of the Aurelii with a little piece to get myself used to writing Adult!Martin. Chamerion's 'Songs for Nomads' is the inspiration for the feel of this piece. This will be more a collection of drabbles which will also contain aspects of head-canon lore, including personal interpretations of the Tsaesci, Akaviri culure/magic and their relationship with Akatosh. There's also diddly-squat about the Medes, so I'm throwing in a bit of created history.

To fully understand this piece, you should at least read 'Fa'al Aldin Du'ul (The Jagged Crown)' and 'Hunne do Lein' (Heroes of the World) as this takes place between the second-last chaper of Hunne and the Epilogue. The other one-shots in this series help flesh out things, but aren't mandatory.

…

**The Serpent's Trail**

In the end he snuck out from the Red Kitchen Inn with a note left for his mother. Uncle Irkand had already prepared a travel pack and acquired a steady, slightly older horse for him. The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood understood that some journeys needed to be taken alone.

He travelled through Whiterun Hold, stopping in at Jorrvaskr to leave word with the Harbinger. Farkas insisted on feeding him, telling the boy he was too skinny for a growing lad, butt Martin already knew that he would favour the Aurelii's light frame and the Mede lack of height over the muscles that his Norc and Ra Gada heritage were prone to. Seven years of going from a surfeit of food to relative poverty had left its mark on his body though his growth wasn't quite done.

Three years until the bargain with Nocturnal was done and he could relinquish the Grey Cowl. Martin would still make the choice he had, serving as the Daedric Prince's personal spy and thief. But seven years of only a few people having memory of him took their toll. As a child, he'd found it fun that the majority of folk wouldn't recognise him, allowing him and Babette to get away with all sorts of mischief.

Now, in the wake of the Siege of Castle Volkihar and the rumours drifting from Cyrodiil, Martin mourned that his people would believe him dead, believe themselves hopeless under the regime of Armaund Motierre. Skyrim and High Rock had had no choice but to close in upon themselves, like a sea urchin presenting its prickly back, to preserve what they could for the next generation. The Dominion awaited the day the veterans of the Great War and the Dragonborn all perished, so that they could conquer the world and snuff it out of existence without opposition.

Morrowind had fallen under the banner of the Goddess-Queen Irileth, who reigned from Solstheim as Nerevar Incarnate and Daedric Prince in her own right. High King Ralof had reluctantly allowed the free worship of the Dunmer's Three Good Daedra, though he was drawing the line at the Cult of the Madgoddess that Elisif promoted in Solitude. Still, he didn't dare stamp down on it, as Northstar's Mad Dancers made Orcish and Nord berserkers look like pacifists. These days, many an Aedra and Daedra were allied against the Thalmor's Trinity of Molag Bal, Jyggalag and Peryite.

Now Martin stood at the beginning of the Serpent's Trail, the ancient path used by Akaviri invaders and then the Aurelii to travel secretly between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, and felt the cold shiver of the northern wind at his back. He'd always been proud of his Nord heritage, partly as rebellion against his stern father and as a 'screw you' to the Imperial Court who looked down on him for being a bastard. But Skyrim had become a place of refuge for the remnants of the Mede family, the Nords a people with hearts as wide as their plains guarded by their cold fierce courage like the mountains that ringed the Province.

Martin now understood that he wasn't a true Nord. Not in the Stormcloaks' racist sense of blood purity, but that a true Nord approached danger head-on, facing it with a high heart and refusal to quit. His mother, for all her guileful ways, was a true Nord. Lia had _never_ run, never quit, fought through obstacles that would cripple a lesser mortal. No wonder she was one of the Four Winds of Shor.

But Martin… He doubted. He wanted to remain a Thief, a shadow in the world. He wanted none of this. Let others carry the burden.

Akatosh, however, would not be denied. Every time Martin camped for the night, vowing he'd turn around and return to Riften, the God of Time inflicted visions of a Cyrodiil twisted and tormented under the boot of the Thalmor, followed by the falling of High Rock, the Reach, Hammerfell and finally Skyrim. He saw his mother dying alone in the ruins of Sky Haven Temple, the broken remnants of the Blades scattered around her. He saw Northstar, the Hero of Kvatch and the Daedric Prince of Madness, tormented on a cosmic rack by Mehrunes Dagon and Jyggalag. He saw Babette trapped in Coldharbour, unable to die but longing for the Void of Sithis every heartbeat. And they were the lucky ones: Balgruuf the Dragonborn, tortured until Time itself broke; Farkas, a castrated blind beggar in a hellish recreation of Jorrvaskr; Irileth a living statue of obsidian trapped in lava as Dagoth Ur laughed.

If Time was unwound, as the Thalmor wanted, Oblivion itself would enter Nirn. And not the Good Daedra, but the worst of the worst.

Martin was just fifteen years old. He shouldn't have to bear this all on his own.

The pannier attached to his horse moved as Do'jan, an Alfiq-raht warrior, stuck his feline head out. "Brooding again?" the Khajiit asked in his hissing, purring language.

"Yeah," Martin admitted unhappily. "Why me?"

The oversized housecat slitted his violet eyes. "Why not you?" he countered.

Martin couldn't argue with that simple wisdom. He mounted his horse again and guided it to the first of the Akaviri base camps, concealed so that only one of the Aurelii could find them. Those camps had saved the clan's life as they fled from Bruma.

Irkand and Celende had warned that he would encounter Dragonguard ghosts there, men and women who could not find rest for whatever reason. As long as he maintained the ancient traditions, he should be safe, even protected by the wraiths. The Tsaesci had instilled their subject peoples with reverence for the old ways, something the Aurelii had continued when the last died out in the first ten years of Talos' rule, hidden and protected in the fortress at Pale Pass.

As he passed through the camp's blood-sealed wards, a ghost in officer's armour immediately made herself known. "Name and rank!" she snapped in Akaviri.

Martin drew himself up and met her cold blue eyes calmly. "Martin Aurelius Mede, Servant of Nocturnal, rightful heir to the Ruby Throne," he answered, staring down at her just like his father had regarded impertinent Legionnaires.

The officer stepped back, bowing as she did so. "My apologies, Dragon's Blood. I thought you were a messenger from the clansmen who had to flee north because of the Altmer."

_Dragon's Blood?_ That was what the Reman and Septim dynasties had been called, but not the Medes!

"They made it and now live at Cloud Ruler with the rest of the Blades," he answered softly. "I… am travelling south to examine the situation in Cyrodiil."

"Concealed," the officer observed noncommittally.

"A lot of people want me dead before I come of age," Martin pointed out wryly.

The officer shrugged. "You don't need to justify your actions to me, Dragon's Blood. Best let General Takeshi know you're in camp, though. He had family in the fleeing clan and he'll want to know they're alright."

Martin inclined his head as she bowed, the full twenty-heartbeat one, and then left to organise ghostly scouts. He then received directions to the small suite of rooms where General Takeshi, father of Ralinde Swan-Neck, held court over a number of lesser officers.

The first thing that struck Martin was the resemblance between the core of the Aurelii and the Akaviri ghosts: smaller than an Imperial but taller than a Breton with wiry frames and the famous slanted eyes in a flat-looking face. Their famed segmented armour gave them a similar appearance to the serpentine overlords who had brought them across the sea for reasons unknown. As he looked on General Takeshi and his subordinates, Martin realised that the stories about Akaviri clans hiding in the mountains were true… For what else were the Aurelii but Akaviri?

"Dragon's Blood! I wasn't expecting- Aido, stand up and bow, you idiot!" Takeshi blurted, losing much of his composure.

"Stand down, gentlemen. I'm here to investigate the situation in Cyrodiil and acting like I'm Tiber Septim reborn will only inform the enemy of my presence," Martin told him, trying to remember all the ways his father had bullshitted the Elder Council. He wound up channelling more of Brynjolf, who was frankly a better candidate for the Elder Council than half the damn idiots on there now.

"Ah, the Nord Dragonborn they gave my daughter to." Takeshi's expression was mingled pride and regret. "She… made it to Skyrim, his land?"

"Yeah, most of the clan did," Martin told him quietly, wondering how to broach Ralinde's death during the Year of Blood and Fire.

"I was given four wives from the women of this place but Talatha was my dearest," Takeshi said softly. "The Potentate called me 'Aurelius', the golden one, but only one of my children had skin almost the same colour as my own."

"Ralinde's daughter Celende is a warrior in the Companions of Jorrvaskr and her son Marius is Third Blade," Martin observed quietly.

"You don't mention my daughter." Takeshi's eyes were shrewd.

"She's returned to Talos in the stars," he finally answered. "One of the Aedra now."

Takeshi nodded slowly. "I understand. I sense a shadow around you, Dragon's Blood."

"When the enemy came, I made a deal with Nocturnal to conceal myself until I was of age," Martin confessed. "I was still a child… and I couldn't have people dying for me."

"A hard decision, but not one without honour, seeing as you descend from the scouts." Takeshi's expression was grim. "I know I am dead, Dragon's Blood. The Dragonguard's oath binds them until the final battle and so we linger here."

"…The World-Eater is dead," Martin said in astonishment. "My mother, oiran to the Last Dragonborn, called the Blades to fulfil their oaths in Sovngarde against Alduin."

"We are not the Blades. We are the Dragonguard. That is a distinction the clan has forgotten over the years." Takeshi folded his arms and regarded Martin sternly. "I know of the Oblivion Crisis – Northstar came this way as both mortal and Daedra. I know how her Dragonborn was subsumed by Akatosh to drive back Mehrunes Dagon. I also know that the Madgoddess bore him a son."

"Julius Martin Aurelius," Martin breathed.

"Yes. You look much like the boy. His son Arius was the last to come here, seeking to understand the truth of the clan, but none else from that lineage did until now."

"I'm sorry I can't give you an explanation, because I'm trying to process the fact I'm a descendant of Talos," Martin retorted with more sarcasm than he should. "I… assume Arius knew, but knowing my grandfather and great-granduncle, I wouldn't have told either of them, and my mother has no damned idea."

Well, Uncle Irkand would have handled it fairly well, but Rustem would have been a disaster knowing he was a descendant of Talos. Truth be told, it… explained a lot about why Titus Mede II took an over-tall woman as concubine when he could have chosen one far more to his tastes instead of getting Lia bone-sculpted to a literal inch of her life.

"That makes sense. You too are descended from me, from the lesser Ra Gada wife." Takeshi shrugged. "What are my family like? To have three oirans from my line is honour beyond counting."

"Even if one of them's a Daedric Prince?"

"That was a decision she made in the madness of losing her Dragonborn but being unable to follow him. Northstar has been an ally of sorts and is a true Aurelii." Takeshi cracked a bit of a smile. "Chaos has its place, after all."

Given that Martin was probably in love with an assassin who served Sithis, he could very well understand that.

He sat down, accepted a cup of preserved sake (the Akaviri were masters of preservation magic) and explained the events of the past seven years. Some things, like Lia and Balgruuf living as the cook and blacksmith at the Red Kitchen Inn, he kept to himself. He had the feeling he wouldn't tell his mother about her ancestry; years after the Year of Blood and Fire, she was still brittle in ways he couldn't comprehend. Some of the visions Akatosh had sent showed her as Dragonborn, might-have-beens which would have ended terribly for all indeed. He loved his mother, but it was a good thing that Balgruuf was Dragonborn.

Takeshi nodded thoughtfully, pride and sorrow flickering across his features. "It is good Alduin is put back into his place and that my blood had a hand in doing it. I have nothing but respect for the First Men, for in their blood flows the constancy of the world."

"Technically I'm Nord," Martin observed. But he lacked the Grah Graat, the Battle Cry, and hadn't told anyone. He didn't have the Voice of the Emperor or the Orcish berserker fury or even the Ra Gada Second Wind…

"Your blood is too thin for the Nords," Takeshi observed dryly. "It can be stretched only so far."

"So what the hell am I then?" Martin snapped.

"You are Akaviri. I would have thought it was obvious as it comes from both sides."

That the Medes were descended from Akaviri was well known, but they'd entered the nobility and become staunchly Imperial while the Aurelii had continued to operate in the shadows, remaining little more than glorified landowners. _"We make heroes, not become them,"_ had been the Blades clan's unofficial motto.

"And what does being Akaviri entail? The bloodline thinned over hundreds of years and now it's simply a point of pride in the nobility," Martin answered, forcing himself to be polite.

_"A river can be split into many streams but in time it will become a river again. All things live and die and live again until they fulfil their purpose."_ Takeshi's voice was soft, sad. "For whatever purpose, Akatosh has brought you about, the culmination of many generations of Akaviri streams becoming a river once more. For most of us, it is simply a sense of time – we always know when sun will rise and set, how far we have travelled, and what time of day it is. Some of us are cursed with visions of things that were and might be."

"I… have the Second Sight," Martin admitted.

"I pity you, Dragon's Blood." Takeshi sounded truly sympathetic. "Akatosh has great plans for you."

"Would have been nice to be consulted first," Martin muttered, finishing his sake.

"We are given no burdens we cannot bear." Takeshi nodded to Aido, who exited the room, and took the cup from Martin to refill it. "I know nothing of your father's bloodline and what banners he could command, but I can promise that we will come to aid you, son of the Aurelii. If Akatosh has spun you out again for a mighty purpose, it is on me that the final battle is nigh."

"Spun me out again?"

Takeshi simply nodded, refusing to answer Martin's question. Through the entire conversation, he'd ignored Do'jan, who'd simply eavesdropped while sitting by the ghost-fire that still managed to give warmth. "You will understand eventually. Would that the Tsaesci, the Voices of Akatosh, were here. They could help you understand your purpose better."

_Uh, no, we'll pass on the vampiric serpent-men if we can, thanks,_ Martin observed silently, downing his next cup. He wasn't sure if this was real or if he was freezing to death in the Jerall Mountains, hallucinating as he and Do'jan died.

Finally he was able to retreat to Takeshi's guest chamber and sleep, Do'jan warming his feet. And as he slept, Akatosh treated him to another round of nightmares, these ones involving a shattered wheel and the Dragon-God unravelling.

_Why me?_

_ Why not you?_


	2. Bruma

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings: violence, fantastic racism, child abuse, elder abuse, mental illness and genocide. Expanding on the Akaviri-Colovian nobility connection.

There are many forms of mental illness from being in an unresponsive state to outright psychosis, so I figure that Northstar can manifest them all in other people. Sheogorath is amusing in-game, but madness is no joke, and neither is Northstar. Crazy people love their folks too a lot of the time and she's no different.

…

**Bruma**

Amazingly, people still eked out a living in the ruins of Bruma beneath the shadow of the crosses which lined the road to the desolate wreckage of Cloud Ruler Temple. Martin saw the slant of a woman's eyes, the flat cheekbones of a boy scrabbling for fuel from a burned house, and understood that these were the remnants of the Bruma-born, a peculiar breed of Colovian with the echoes of Nord and Akaviri ancestry. They had nowhere else to go despite the Thalmor Justicar which literally stood in the town square and watched them, expression eager for the kill.

Skyrim Nords liked to take the piss out of the Bruma and Reach Nords for not being true to the legacy of the First Men. Even now those who travelled through Fort Dunstad and mocked his mother, unknowing of who she really was, by calling her 'snowmelt' (a thin-blooded Nord from the South) like it was an insult. Martin knew that some of the more obnoxious ones became dragon-dinner or carrion for wolves; neither Odahviing nor Irkand tolerated disrespect to their families.

But the Bruma-born were something else. Most, like the Aurelii, could trace their ancestry back to the Dragonguard; in the days of Reman Cyrodiil, Takeshi's line had been noble warriors, not the wandering thieves, whores and murderers of the past two decades. The Bruma-born had been descended from common warriors, only having ancestral weapons and pride. After Tiber Septim, the lines between nobility and commoner had become blurred, though Swan-Neck and her ilk looked upon the Bruma-born with disdain for muddying their blood so readily with Nord.

Because the Grey Cowl was recognisable even two centuries after the original Grey Fox, Martin wasn't wearing it, though he would still fade from the memory of everyone who saw him. In the moment, he could be seen and recognised as a Bruma-born youth, but no one would recall his black hair or blue-green eyes.

A moment was enough, however, for the Thalmor Justicar's eyes to alight upon a wiry youth in leather armour and shine with anticipation. Martin damn well remembered _that_ gleam in a person's eye; his hands went to his daggers, the best that Brom could forge from the finest ebony the Nerevarine could provide. He wanted the coming violence, had wanted it since he saw the crosses with fresh corpses – old people who might remember the old Bruma ways and children who might be able to continue a war – on entering the town.

_His_ town. He was, at the least, Count of Bruma by right since Iannos had been butchered several years ago. And he damned well owed the Thalmor some payback.

"It is forbidden for the degenerate inhabitants of Bruma to carry arms," the Justicar announced as he neared. Haughty and golden-skinned like all the Thalmor, corrupt with the influence of the Daedric Princes. From what Altmer refugees implied, once the Thalmor had been the equivalent of the Blades for the Summerset Isles until just after the Oblivion Crisis. "Surrender your weapons and you might get to live another day."

Martin simply smiled and drew his daggers as Marius had taught him, the instantaneous Akaviri method that saw two diagonal cuts, in the form of a cross, open the Altmer's throat. The Thalmor gurgled and died, golden eyes wide with horror, and something old and dark felt appeased by the blood and violence.

"Eight and One, are you trying to destroy what's left of Bruma?" whispered a woman old enough to have been a child during the first Sack of Bruma, when Nurancar reduced the town to bloody ruins.

"Fucking Aurelii," muttered an old man, chewing on a half-rotten carrot. "Bastards run and left us to suffer – and now they bring more shit upon us."

Martin wiped his daggers on the Thalmor's robes, reminding himself that the Bruma-born had suffered even more than the Blades. "I'm sorry, but if the Thalmor kill me, we're all dead," he apologised, voice still gruff with hurt at their bitterness.

"I know that voice," whined a rheumy-eyed drunk; Martin realised with horror that it was one of the Marei, the clan from which Gaius Maro the Elder hailed. One of the Akaviri clans who'd married into the Colovian nobility of northern Cyrodiil. "My Emperor! I thought the Dark Brotherhood had killed you."

_He thinks I'm my father,_ Martin realised sadly. What had Skyrim's decision to abandon Cyrodiil cost the southern province?

"Maybe it's Martin Mede," observed the carrot-eating old man sarcastically. "Come to save us from the Thalmor."

"He just saved you from Nurancar the Younger," the drunk retorted, voice deepening and eyes gaining a febrile light.

"Hello, Grandma," Martin said softly.

"Hey kiddo," Northstar, the Hero of Kvatch who had mantled the Daedric Prince Sheogorath and become the Madgoddess, greeted with remarkable gentleness. With her ascension – though she maintained a certain aspect as the old man clad in motley who drove others insane for his own amusement – to Oblivion, the former Grand Master had become known as a protector of the Aurelii and a thorough meddler in the affairs of mortals, mostly for benevolent reasons. But she was still mad as a First Seed hare, a frenzied force of rage and destruction whose Mad Dancers were gaining a reputation for insensate savagery equal to the Orcs in berserker rage. Martin loved his ancestress, who'd been kind to him and protected him during the trip into Castle Volkihar to retrieve Auriel's Bow, but he also had no illusions about what she was.

He slowly turned around, noting that the few people gathered in the town square were now unresponsive, almost catatonic, and finally faced the obviously insane drunk again. "Takeshi told me I'm Akaviri, not a Nord or an Imperial," he finally said.

"Yeah. Akatosh has been laying his plans since the fall of the Septims," Northstar confirmed. "Much has been made of your mother's ancestry, kiddo, but as much a prick as Titus Mede II was, he played a part in it. _His _mother was a Marei with Breton Akaviri ancestry; he _had_ to be your dad and not just because he was the damned Emperor. Akatosh hasn't told me everything, but-"

"I also know that I'm a Septim," Martin interrupted, more harshly than he expected. So many damned plans that seemed to revolve around him.

"Hiding your bloodline was one of the few things me and that bitch Swan-Neck agreed on," Northstar said softly. "The Thalmor know that to destroy the descendants of Talos and the other Dragonborn is to… well, not destroy the world, but certainly weaken the axis of the Wheel."

"They'd need to wipe out all life," Martin pointed out. "I know that Balgruuf is descended from Wulfharth – Ysmir – and I imagine there are still strains of the Reman bloodline running around."

"True. And Balgruuf… Well, that son of a bitch was smarter than I expected. But then, Akatosh is not Shor and it is Shor who's the Heart of the World. Everybody's favourite God of Time is simply what keeps past, present and future in what is deemed to be their places. If He died, the world wouldn't end, it would just be… malleable." Northstar gestured with the drunk's scrawny hand, producing a fine Breton brie.

"So basically, I'm Akatosh's last-ditch plan to save Himself," Martin answered, picking up the cheese. Northstar was mad as a loon, but she also told the truth.

"Little more complicated than that and the Lord of the Aedra doesn't tell me jackshit. I get more information from Kyne and Shor." Northstar chuckled grimly and then sighed. "I guess you've noticed the Thalmor have gotten nastier over the past few years, even by their usual standards."

"Yes." Martin noted every twitch in the Madgoddess' puppet's face as Brynjolf had taught him, coming to one conclusion. "That's your work."

"Yeah." Northstar folded the drunk's arms and sighed again. "If the asshole trio running the Thalmor had their way, it would be two or three generations before they struck again, when humanity no longer considered the Dominion a threat. It sucks that people are suffering _now_, but by taking off the barriers most mortals have on their darker sides, I'm making Molag Bal's cruelty, Jyggalag's obsession with order, and Peryite's mania for completing tasks come to the fore in their followers."

Martin turned away from his ancestress until he could control his temper. The Madgoddess _was_ benevolent and in an objective way her actions made sense: by provoking the Thalmor and their Daedric masters before they were ready, mortalkind would be still prepared for the ensuing war and would have a greater chance of winning. But even in life, Northstar had never really suffered – well, losing the first Martin had done her head in, but she'd not endured the intense, long-term suffering that someone like his mother and even Balgruuf had. She could be… objective… about the torture and death being inflicted by the Thalmor in the grip of their insanity.

"I don't agree with you, but I see your point," he finally said as he faced her again. "Did you make me lose it to kill that Nurancar the Younger?"

Febrile green eyes met his unflinchingly. "That madness was all yours, Martin, and you damned well know why."

"They ravaged my people and my territory! He deserved to die-!" Martin roared, that dark and primal urge that had begun to surface after Castle Volkihar driving the outburst. The same urge that had made it hard to deal with Balgruuf; the two men justified Martin's presence in Riften to Lia as 'for the sake of security' but both knew it was because-

"He's the Last Dragonborn!" The words, spoken, echoed across the Bruma square like distant thunder.

"He is indeed," Northstar answered softly. "The last mortal prophesised to carry a dragon's soul. But not the first – and now I see the web Akatosh has spun over the past two centuries. Time-fucking bastard that He is."

"What do you mean?" Martin screamed.

But the green light glowed from the drunk's eyes, leaving him to blink blearily at an enraged Martin. "Calm down and have a drink, son," he suggested, offering some cheap wine. "The Thalmor's dead."

Martin helped himself and shared the cheese with the drunk, seething at the truth which was just out of reach. What did she mean?

"My paternal grandmother was a Marei," he suddenly said after a few swigs.

"I know and that shit Gaius is dragging our name through the mud," the drunk agreed. "I tried to reveal his dealings with the Thalmor to Emperor Motierre, but that Breton bastard had me flogged, tortured to insanity and then thrown into the street to beg. Been a drunk since. At least Sanguine lets you forget the pain."

"Motierre's a Thalmor puppet," Martin pointed out bitterly. "He's the one who had my father murdered."

"And Irkand who carried it out, no doubt for your mother's sake," the drunk countered. "If you think here's bad, lad, it'll get worse the further south you go."

Martin's fists clenched. "I need to know how bad it is. Skyrim and High Rock had to close themselves off for their own protection-"

"Pfft, so those rumours about dragons were crap?" The drunk sounded bitter.

"Oh, no, Alduin was real. Ma helped kill him and the vampires." Once again, he thought of Babette, a predator learning to be human again. But if he understood Northstar's implications, _he_ had a predator's soul in mortal flesh. Who was he to judge?

When he had taken life so easily, so joyfully, who was he to judge?

"I remember your mother. Decent woman, for one of the Aurelii. No offence, but your clan bred with nearly everything under the sun and then had the hide to look down on the Marei, the Medes and the Tarii like they were more Akaviri than the rest of us." The drunk snorted and swigged some more cheap wine, everyone else slowly returning to themselves. Martin decided not to mention what happened.

"From what I've been told, the Marei and the Medes are as Akaviri as the Aurelii, and… sort of why the Emperor had to be my father," he finally admitted.

"You're a throwback then? We'll never need a sundial with you around, lad!" The drunk cackled and slapped Martin's back. "My name is Marcus Maro."

"Good to meet you, Marcus." Martin looked around and noted Do'jan nosing around in Nurancar the Younger's paperwork, forcing him to return to the immediate consequences of executing a Thalmor Justicar – son of the late and unlamented Elenwen and the regrettably alive Nurancar, charmingly named the Butcher of Bruma – and how to cope with it. "Is there anyone in Bruma who know the old way-signs?"

"I do," spoke the old guy who'd been eating the carrot.

"Then get out of here. Follow them to the old Akaviri camps. The Dragonguard will protect you if you say Martin Aurelius Mede sent you." Martin didn't know how much they'd remember, but he'd need to make it stick.

_They will remember this,_ said a voice deep within. _For you are their Emperor, working for their good. Not even Nocturnal can conceal that._

Martin didn't want to think on who or what that voice was. At the moment, he was pretty pissed with Aedra and Daedra alike.

"Go to Skyrim if need be. Riften's got a pretty good Bruma population. But staying here is just asking to die, even if I hadn't killed that bastard."

Dead people couldn't resettle Bruma. And… Martin had the feeling he needed to evacuate the town. There were secrets at Cloud Ruler, given to him by Uncle Irkand, that he needed to investigate before the Thalmor came.

"So that's where you were," the old man observed.

"Yeah, Motierre was sending me to the slave market when I was rescued by some bandits." Martin smirked as he recalled the argument on firs versus furs. He missed the Thieves' Guild; he'd kill for Delvin's pragmatism and Vex's cunning right about now.

"You going to raise a rebellion?" the woman asked.

"Not now." Martin held up his hand to forestall protests. "The rebellion will also be the next war against the Thalmor. If you've noticed, I'm still a scrawny bastard."

"You always were," Marcus grinned. "The Medes had colossal egos because they never got much taller than the Akaviri blood."

"And the Marei get drunk on a cup of wine because they have the Akaviri tolerance for drink," taunted the old carrot-eating guy, who was probably a Tarii or Aurelii by-blow.

"Don't mind old Gratian. His mother was a Tarii, which is to say she never knew his father's name," Marcus told Martin dryly.

"As opposed to the Aurelii, who never knew their mothers," Martin whispered. Irkand and Marius hadn't pulled any punches when teaching the few Aurelii children about the actions of the clan since the Oblivion Crisis.

He admittedly knew little of the Tarii, an old clan that was somewhere around equestrian rank but was more notable for being matriarchal and matrilineal, a rarity in traditional Colovia. But Gratian Tarius seemed to be fairly cluey and would make for a good leader of the refugees.

Martin pulled off one of his enchanted rings, a golden ruby one he'd stolen from the old Jarl of Riften, and dropped it into Gratian's hand. "Show that to Brynjolf, Jarl of Riften, and he will know who sent you," he commanded softly. "I would lead you, but I must know how my people have suffered while I was kept safe in the north."

It seemed easier to fall into command; he'd observed so many leaders, good and bad, both as Imperial Heir and Thief. Even his father had done his best… for Cyrodiil. Titus Mede II had just forgotten that the Empire was more than the Colovians, it was all the races of Tamriel if they chose to live by its laws.

Martin mourned his father in his own way but accepted that such grief was rare in his circle. Lia burned a candle every Arkay's Day, but that could be for all those who died because of her actions. Irkand was tactful enough not to gloat about his greatest kill around Martin while Balgruuf was grimly gleeful. Farkas and Irileth were neutral about the dead Emperor.

The young man accepted that Titus Mede had brought about his own demise in a way, just as his actions had cost the Empire Hammerfell and Skyrim. But older and slightly wiser, he could see why Titus had made said decisions in the wake of the Great War, when a devastated Cyrodiil needed rebuilding. Work that Motierre was tearing down for his own pleasure, it seemed.

"The Thalmor don't know what's coming for them," he whispered, meeting each of the surviving Bruma-born's eyes. "Aedra and Daedra alike are pissed with them. When the time comes – and it will happen in the next few years – they will be facing an army comprised of _all_ races. Even now, rebellions pepper Elseweyr and Valenwood. The Neverarine readies the Dunmer for war. Skyrim, High Rock and the Reach are preparing behind their closed borders. I intend to make diplomatic contacts to invite the Ra Gada to join us."

He clasped his hands before him as his father had when addressing the Elder Council. "But this takes time. Those who will lead the next war – well, the humans – are still growing up. Me included. Arms, rations and training must be arranged. The Thalmor know that another war is in the wind, but they have no damned idea the wave that will crash over them."

Marcus nodded as the others began to talk. Not inspired – they were too bloody and exhausted for inspiration – but a spark of hope lit their eyes. "Nurancar the Younger's dead and that's good enough for me," he declared. "I still have a few old contacts, so I might as well join you."

"I-What?" Martin blurted.

"You heard me. You've got a good head on your shoulders, lad, but you need someone older and wiser to be your second. The Marei have always been seconds to the Medes and I'll be damned if you get some idiot instead." Despite being filthy and reeking of cheap wine, Marcus held himself with the dignity of a Colovian noble once more, his brown eyes clear and determined.

_"My last gift to you, for this and all lives,"_ Northstar murmured in his mind. _"He's functional now, much like Elisif."_

_ My last gift to you…_ For a moment Martin saw fire and fury, an emerald and silver ring thrust at a blood-covered Northstar, but the image vanished again. _"Thank you, Grandma."_

_ "Just kick Akatosh in the balls for me and we'll be good." _Northstar's presence vanished and Martin bowed his head, feeling unutterable loss. He had the feeling that if they met again, it would be as Emperor and Daedric Prince, not as descendant and ancestress.

Why did his heart feel broken, like he'd lost someone beloved instead of his grandma?

Shaking off the feeling like a good Colovian, Martin nodded to Marcus. "Hope you can get a horse and keep up. I have a lot of ground to cover."

Marcus snorted. "I was the General of the Bravil First Cavalry, _boy._ Only man who could ride better than me was Tullius."

He strode over to Nurancar the Younger's grey palfrey and mounted easily despite his rags. "We'll jump us some toadies on the road and get proper uniforms," he decided. "You're of an age to be an old cavalry's officer's aide."

Martin found himself grinning even as he wondered how Marcus would recall him when he was under Nocturnal's influence.

_Those who need to know will be aware of their rightful Emperor._ The voice was wordless, conveying complex ideas in some sort of communion. "Do you have any moral objections to theft?" Martin asked lightly as he mounted his own horse.

"It's not 'theft' when you're in the military. It's 'acquisition of needed resources from the enemy'," Marcus corrected, nudging his new horse into motion.

"And here I thought the time Tullius wanted me to spend in the Legion would suck," Martin observed as they galloped out of Bruma, leaving the rubble and refugees behind. He'd given them the means to flee; it would be up to them to use it.

He mightn't be able to liberate Cyrodiil yet, but by the gods he'd damn well start giving them hope.

Aedra and Daedra be damned, the lot of them.


End file.
